


a story in our summers

by dawnstruck



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Child Neglect, Childhood Friends, Coming of Age, Contemporary AU, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, hurt!keith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 19:53:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10748682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstruck/pseuds/dawnstruck
Summary: Keith's new life in the suburbs can be summed up with summer and Shiro and scraped-up knees.





	a story in our summers

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Belina who wanted Sheith childhood friends which kind of got out of hand. Instead of some straight forward fluff with some pining, this has instead turned into a elaborate coming of age story with the main purpose of giving an emotionally stunted Keith a healthy support system. 
> 
> So if you are here for the ship that's good, but if you enjoy character development that's even better. :)

 

Keith rubs the pulse of his wrist across his mouth and, when that doesn't feel like enough, licks the salt off his lips. He draws his knees closer to his chest and sniffs once. The end of his shoe lace is coming undone. He plucks at it, watches as it frays even more under his careless fingers. 

The sun is already low in the sky, a searing ball of orange, the hot air still shimmering around it. On the other side of the road, the door of the blue house opens and an older boy steps outside, a soccer ball in his hands. The fly screen clatters shut behind him.

“Keith,” a voice says and when Keith jerks his head around he sees Mrs. Blanche standing on the porch. Her summer dress is buttercup yellow and for a moment he stares at it, transfixed.

“Dinner is ready,” she tells him and, when he pushes himself off the curb, the asphalt is still warm beneath his palm.

 

Meredith Blanche and her husband Maxwell 'Call me Max' are the kind of people who could have kids of their own, but who believe in 'giving children in need a home'. They are the quirky sort of couple that still give each other goodbye and hello kisses everyday. and overall they are just a little odd, as though they had stepped straight out of a cartoon.

Meredith's hair is dyed in faded shades of pink and peach, like a bruised fruit, and she wears the lipstick and nail polish to match. She is the kind of pretty that does not quite fit into the suburbs, but she bakes muffins and waters flowers and does her best to make up for whatever she is lacking. Whenever she waves at the neighbors, the bangles on her wrists titter and her voice is always a bit too shrill when she's excited.

Maxwell is almost just as bad with his horn-rimmed glasses and the coffee stains on his creased button-downs. He's a history teacher who marks his students' papers with green instead of red because that looks less severe, and he has an entire shelf in the living-room dedicated to weird memorabilia, ranging from oddly-colored pebbles over snow globes to a signed and framed picture of Christopher Walken.

Keith doesn't know who Christopher Walken is. He doesn't know what potpourri is either or sandalwood, only that there are bowls and scented candles of it strewn through the house. There's a dried and dusty Christmas wreath on the mantle piece because, as Meredith had explained, it was important to remember the spirit of Christmas throughout the rest of the year, too. Then she had hurriedly asked whether Keith celebrates Christmas or whether there are any other holidays he'd like to observe.

Keith has his own room here, too. The window faces the street and the walls are white because 'we didn't know what your favorite color is'. It's almost nice to indulge them, to play make-belief that they maybe won't send him back to the orphanage by the end of the summer.

 

“Did you go explore the neighborhood?” Meredith asks across the lasagna. There's no meat in it, because Max is a vegetarian, but Meredith has promised to make exceptions because she personally believed that children needed a balanced diet.

“Yeah,” Keith lies, scratching his fork against the place. It's not like they can really check; the Blanches had only moved here a little while ago, a couple of months before they took Keith in.

“Did you get to know anyone?”

Keith lifts his shoulders and lets them sink again.

“Is that a yes shrug or a no shrug?”

“I saw a boy,” Keith says, just to get her off his case, “In front of the blue house.”

“Ooh,” she says, her fork poised in front of her lips, “That must have been the Shirogane's son. He's very polite. A bit older than you, right?”

“Looked like it.”

“If he tries to sell you weed, run,” Max says darkly and then he and Meredith snicker at each other so that Keith may frown back down at his meal.

They are, by far, not the worst foster parents one could end up with. In fact, they are probably best described as 'super nice'. So the problem is not so much that Keith dislikes them but that he simply doesn't understand them.

They should know better. They are the kind of people who come to the shelter to get a cute puppy but then take pity in the runty mutt that no one wants, the one that barks too little before it bites, the one the lady at the shelter will try to tug them away from because 'this one needs someone with more experience'. The one that'll eventually be put down and out of his misery because no one really wants him.

“Who wants strawberry ice cream?” Meredith asks, already pushing back her chair, and Keith marvels a little at how innocent some people can be.

 

He is in the middle of scratching his mosquito bites raw, when he hears the plaintive crying. He cranes his neck to glance out of the window. There, on one of the branches of the young sycamore tree on the sidewalk, sits a black cat, obviously distressed about how to get down again.

Keith leans back against his pillow. Closes his eyes. Another helpless mewl. Keith sighs and climbs off his bed.

He does not bother with his shoes, simply steps outside and walks across the dry lawn, blades of grass poking the space between his toes. When he comes to stand underneath the tree, the cat looks down at him with expectant yellow eyes as though it was about time that Keith came to its rescue.

Keith rubs his palms against his shorts and then makes a grab for the lowest hanging branch.

The climb itself is not too difficult. The place he'd stayed at last year had been close to the woods and he had spent entire afternoons listlessly wandering along half-hidden trails. There had been an old gnarly beech that he'd like to climb on, all the way to the top, with the foliage aflame in October reds and golds.

He has to wedge his naked toes and the arches of his feet into the creases in the bark and it aches faintly, but then he finally reaches the cat. It does not hiss at him, just dips it ears back as though in petulance.

It's a big cat, made bigger by the fluffy fur, and Keith has to awkwardly put a hand underneath her silver belly so he can still hold on to the branches with his right. The cat doesn't seem to like that, still doesn't hiss, but clings to his wrist with its claws extended, right into the mosquito bite. Keith grits his teeth and endures.

One last jump and his soles hit the lawn again. The cat scrambles from his arm, tail pointed upward, as though it had not just been playing damsel in distress, and then marches over to the sidewalk.

Keith doesn't quite startle when he sees the boy standing there, the boy from the blue house who now is looking down at the cat in fond exasperation. He must be fourteen or fifteen, with dark hair and a kind face. Shirogane, Meredith had said, but nothing more.

“This again?” the boy asks the cat who does not seem overly chastised. Then he looks up and over at Keith. “You should have just let her up there,” he says, “She always does stuff like that to get attention.”

Keith's definitely has heard that one before. But he just shrugs, jams his hands into his pockets to hide his sluggishly bleeding wrist. He has half a mind to just go back into the house, but a thought stops him.

“What's her name?” he asks.

“Black,” the boy says and gives lop-sided grin, “I know, not very original. My older sister named her when she was a kid.”

By now, Black has sauntered back over to Keith, pressing up against his bare shins, her long bushy tail twining around his leg.

“Huh,” the boy says, slightly bemused, “Usually she doesn't much like strangers.”

Keith purses his lips. People get possessive with their pets, he knows. This guy probably doesn't appreciate his cat handing out affection to some run-along kid.

The boy, however, surprises him with a smile. “She's probably grateful that you rescued her.”

Keith doesn't say anything, resisting the urge to twist his fingers into the hem of his shirt, knowing it makes him look childish. For a moment, the two of them just look at each other.

“I'm Shiro, by the way,” the boy says. Keith figures it must be some sort of moniker because Shiro Shirogane would be a pretty awful name.

“Keith,” he says quietly. They are standing too far apart for a handshake not to be awkward. Shiro is probably old enough to do the handshake thing. Perhaps he thinks Keith is too young.

“So,” Shiro says eventually, tilting his head to the side, “Wanna play ball?”

To his own surprise, Keith does.

 

“Soo,” Meredith starts that evening, sashaying through the hallway to sidle up with Keith before he can even make it to the stairs, “I saw you talking to the Shirogane's kid today.”

“... Yeah,” Keith says suspiciously, “So?”

“So, that's good,” she beams, all dimples, “You're making friends!”

“We just kicked a ball around for a while,” Keith mumbles. His hands are on the banister, holding on to it, kinda wanting to pull himself away from this conversation.

“Ooh, I know I'm embarrassing you,” Meredith gushes, “But I'm just so happy!”

She is candy colors and rainbow bubbles and Keith doesn't know what to do with that.

“Can I go to my room?” he asks.

Meredith's smile doesn't waver but the look in her eyes becomes a little sharper, a little more self-aware. Keith swallows.

“Of course, darling,” she says, “Dinner will be done in about an hour.”

Keith gives a mute nod and scampers up the stairs. He's barely made it to the top when Meredith calls after him.

“You can invite your friend over for dinner if you want to!” she tells him and Keith doesn't know how to react to that either.

 

“M 'n' M asked me to invite you over for dinner,” Keith says with the soccer ball held in front of his chest, scuffing his heel against the sidewalk. It's been a week of him and Shiro hanging out together and Keith is trying not to read too much into it. There don't seem to be many other kids their age in the neighborhood and summer break is long. Shiro is probably bored out of his mind.

“M 'n' M?” Shiro echoes now, a bewildered frown on his face.

“Meredith and Maxwell,” Keith elaborates and then, in case Shiro doesn't know that either, “My foster parents.”

He doesn't quite mumble the last part, but only because Shiro must have figured that one out by himself. He had known the Blanches before and it's not like Keith looks anything like them.

“Ooh,” Shiro says simply, his eyes lighting up in understanding, “Yeah, sure, that'd be cool. I'll have to tell my mom, though.”

“Sure thing,” Keith says and gives a jerky nod.

He knows there is no point in introducing Shiro to the Blanches, really, especially not since Meredith would probably keep bugging Keith about bringing him over more often. Next weekend, Shiro's best friend Matt would be coming back from the family vacation in Switzerland. The Holts lived just two blocks away and apparently Shiro spent a lot of time at their place. They had all the best video games and a dog, and Keith knows that, come Monday, he would be forgotten.

 

After dinner, Keith climbs out of his window and onto the roof. The shingles are cool underneath his feet and he hugs his knees close to huddle up against the night chill. Across the road, the light turns on in what he has figured out must be Shiro's bedroom, a yellow square in the half-dark.

Dinner had been nice enough, with Shiro easily reacting to Meredith's chatter and taking some of the attention away from Keith. Keith never knew how to navigate conversations, always felt like the captain of the Titanic just a hairsbreadth away from the iceberg. Keith felt like sinking.

But Shiro had talked about his family and about the Holts and the neighborhood and sports and Arendale Middle School that Keith would be attending starting this fall.

Perhaps you can look out for Keith, Maxwell had encouraged Shiro, He doesn't know his way around yet.

Sure thing, Mr. Blanche, Shiro had said and, I'd love some, when Meredith got out the chocolate ice cream. Keith had kept his head down and eaten his spaghetti very slowly.

Do you wanna come with? Shiro had asked Keith when he was putting his sneakers back on, hobbling on one leg in the hallway, On Monday, I mean?

Keith had frowned, Weren't you planning to go and see Matt?

Yeah, Shiro had nodded, I thought you might want to meet him, since I've been talking about him so much.

Fifth wheel, Keith had thought.

Sure, he had said.

Now he presses his forehead against his knees and breathes. Maybe he'll get to pet the dog.

 

The dog is a white pitpull and his name is Newton. When he comes to greet Shiro and Keith, he seems to be wagging not just his tail but the entire second half of his body.

“Shiro, my man!” Matt crows, bounding down the stairs and then the two of them turn into a heap of teenage boy and limbs which is quickly joined by excited dog. Keith shifts his weight from one foot to the other and waits.

“Who are you?” someone asks from the side and Keith spots a little girl standing at the bottom of the stairs. She cannot be older than ten, with a mane of blonde hair and dressed in a mauve dress.

Katie, Keith recalls from Shiro's idle small talk, Matt's little sister.

“'m Keith,” he says, “I'm- Shiro's neighbor.”

Katie's eyes widen and then she is already turning toward her brother.

“You know what this means?” she asks him.

“Yes,” Matt says, fist pumping from his place on the floor, “Get out '64!”

 

They spent the entire afternoon playing Mario Kart in Matt's room. Keith and Shiro have good reflexes but Matt and Katie are video game nerds. Everyone wins at least three rounds but, for the most part, Katie just wipes the floor with them, all the while complaining about stinky boy socks.

The window is open but the summer air stagnant. Mrs. Holt brings them sweetened ice tea and Newton drools all over Keith's lap.

“Patience yields focus,” Shiro mutters under his breath but then falls off the rainbow bridge anyway, angrily tossing his controller onto the carpet, while Matt cackles gleefully.

It's deceptively easy to settle into this sort of peace, of Matt and Katie geeking out over some science convention they attended in Switzerland, the easy banter between Shiro and Matt, peppered with Katie's caustic remarks, and Keith feels his shoulders relax, laughter startled out of him like birds from the underbrush. Shiro grins at him and nudges him with his elbow.

“You guys wanna stay for dinner?” Matt asks when the sun is closing in on the horizon.

“I'll have to ask,” Keith says and is glad he knows the Blanche's phone number by heart.

 

Eventually, summer break has to come to an end which means that Keith will have to go to school. It's easier to join at the beginning of the year, he knows, easier to blend in, but he is still the new kid and there is no way around that. Shiro had promised to keep an eye out for him, but Shiro is two grades above him and Keith is used to taking care of himself anyway.

Teenagers a vicious, he knows, and they can sense his otherness like hyenas smell a carcass in the Serengeti.

It's a different school, a different office, a different principal, but the situation is the same. The paper towels are too coarse to stuff into his nostrils without doing more damage, so Keith just bunches them up in his fists and lets the blood drop over his lips and chin.

One of the teachers has chewed him out already, but the secretary is sending him pitying glances from behind her desk.

Finally, Meredith arrives, sweeping through the door in a flurry of flower patterns and loopy earrings. Her eyes zeros in on Keith and then she is already crouching down in front of him.

“Oh,” she says, tilting his chin back a little to look at his face, “Poor baby.”

Then she digs through her handbag and gets out a soft white tissue that she gently presses into his hand.

“There,” she tells him, “Do you wanna go wash up?”

“The principal wants to talk to you,” Keith says.

“The principal can wait,” Meredith claims which earns her a raised eyebrow from the secretary, but Keith just stares up at her till Meredith sighs.

“Alright,” she says, nudging Keith off his seat, “Let's get this over with.”

“Mrs. Blanche,” the principal greets when they enter and Keith is insanely relieved that she doesn't accidentally call her Mrs. Kogane, “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Naturally,” Meredith says and primly sits down on one of the chairs without waiting for invitation. The principal Miss Alvez sends a meaningful look at Keith when he hesitantly takes the other chair.

“I think it would be best to discuss this in private.”

“And I would rather not talk about Keith behind his back,” Meredith smiles, “I'm sure all you have to say it perfectly suited for his ears.”

Miss Alvez sigh but it seems more amused than exasperated.

“Very well,” she says, folding her brown hands on her tidy desk. Her nail polish is a some understated cream color that Keith doesn't know how to name, a stark contrast to Meredith's screaming turquoise. “As you know, Keith got into a physical altercation with another student.”

“Yes,” Meredith nods, “Where is that boy, by the way?”

“At the nurse's office,” Miss Alvez says pointedly and Meredith seems a little chastised.

“Well,” she says, smoothing down her skirt, “And what was the reason behind this confrontation?”

She directs the questions both at Keith and at Miss Alvez, but Keith just hunches up his shoulders. Whatever he says will probably only get him into more trouble.

“Apparently, Keith was teased by a boy from another class and reacted rather violently instead of seeking the help of a teacher.”

“Uh-huh,” Meredith says, crossing her arms, “Keith. How long had that boy been teasing you?”

Keith looks down at his lap. The tissue she gave him is all bloody by now.

“Since Wednesday last week,” he says quietly. From his periphery, he can see Meredith sit up even straighter in her chair.

“So he has been targeted for over a week,” she tells the principal slowly, “And you are blaming him for his patience running out?”

“Mrs. Blanche, you have to consider the bigger picture here,” Miss Alvez says, “The kind of message this is sending to the other children-”

“No, I have to wonder what kind of message it is to punish someone who stood up against his bullies.”

“He only started attending this school three weeks ago and he needs to learn-”

“Exactly,” Meredith interrupts her, “Three weeks. Three weeks and he is already being ostracized. Three weeks, and you want to make an example of him. What kind of dystopian novel are you basing  this on again?”

Miss Alvez purses her lips and leans back in her chair.

“And what am I meant to tell the other boy's parents?” she asks.

“Hopefully something more inspiring than what you told me,” Meredith sniffs, “Where are they anyway?”

“Held up at work, as I am told.”

“Then I assume my bit here is done.”

“You would assume right,” Miss Alvez says, her sharp eyes watching as Meredith rises from her chair. “You can toss that out there,” she adds with a gesture toward Keith when she sees him clutching the bloody tissue in his hand, and he throws it into the trash can by the door.

The ride back home is silent but not necessarily tense. Meredith has turned on the radio and underneath Keith's butt the Prius purrs to the sound of Indie guitars, but he still bites his lips raw.

Meredith pulls up to the house and parks the car. For a moment, she just keeps her hands on the steering wheel and they sit in the driveway like this, all guitars and singing gone. Then Meredith sighs. When she get out of the car and closes the door, it feels like a gunshot.

Keith follows her at a distance, watches as she jiggles her keys in her hand and peels off her sandals.

“You can go up to your room, if you want to,” she tells him, “I'll bring you some ice cream.”

Keith thinks she must mean ice for his nose, but does not object, just squeezes past her and quickly climbs up the stairs.

She joins him five minutes later, two bowls of toasted almost fudge ice cream in her hands. When she sits down on the edge of the mattress, Keith pulls his legs close and out of the way.

“There,” she says, pushing one of the bowls at him, “You look like you need it.”

Keith stares at the slowly melting ice cream because that is easier than looking into her frog green eyes.

“Aren't you angry?” he asks. Raised voices were so much easier to handle than sympathetic smiles, and he'd rather she didn't try to guilt him into apologizing.

“I think I already made my point of view clear,” Meredith says, setting the ice cream down on the bedside table instead. “So why would I be?

Keith looks at his toes digging into the comforter.”

“Because I messed up,” he says, “I got in a fight and- and they made you come to school.”

“Oh no, half an hour out of my busy busy day just gone,” Meredith snorts and, when he glances up, she is rolling her eyes.

She is a web designer and thus mostly works from home. Keith doesn't know how she would have reacted if she had actually gotten the call while she was at the office, but right now he still cannot believe how unbothered she seems to be by all of this.

No, not all of this. She doesn't seem bothered by how Keith got into a fight, how he threw the first punch. She is only upset about the reason behind it, about how no one had hesitated to point fingers at him.

Instead of a lecture, she gave him ice cream.

They sit in silence until Keith finally makes a grab for his bowl. Their spoons clink against the porcelain, creating a quaint melody. The chocolate chases the taste of blood from his mouth, and the cold soothes his aching lips.

When they are done, Meredith takes the bowl from him again and goes to the door. In the threshold, she stops, looks back over her shoulder.

“I once punched a classmate in the face because she stole my magazine,” she tells him, “Had detention for a week, but I think it was worth it.”

Then she gives him some space.

 

Later that afternoon, Shiro comes to see him.

“Hey,” he says, rapping his knuckles against the door frame, “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” Keith says but keeps the book open in his lap, just in case.

“Your mom let me in,” Shiro explains, joining him on the bed, leaning in a bit to take a closer look at Keith's messed up face. “What happened?”

“Fight,” Keith says, not really feeling capable of more than one-word answers. Shiro probably heard enough rumors to get most of the picture anyway.

“Um. Did you win?”

“Dunno,” Keith shrugs. The teachers had been called before anything could be decided.

For a moment, Shiro is silent.

“Sorry I wasn't there,” is what he finally says.

Keith lifts his head to blink at him. “What?”

“Sorry I wasn't there,” Shiro repeats, “I would have helped you otherwise.”

“'s my own fault,” Keith says, “I'm-” He breaks off, trying to recall the word one of his old teachers had used, “Belligerent.”

“Pff,” Shiro snorts, “You let Katie steal your entire share of cookies last Friday.”

“She's ten,” Keith points out.

“Fights like ten men, maybe,” Shiro mutters, absentmindedly rubbing his knee where she had kicked him a couple of days ago.

They don't talk about the fight again or what it was about in the first place. Keith haltingly describes the plot of the book he is reading and Shiro makes plans for their weekend. When he has to run back over to his place for dinner, Keith is kind of sad to see him go.

 

They get him a kitten. He's been staying with them for three months and they get him a kitten.

She is tiny, all red fur and blue green eyes and when Meredith tries to give her to him in cupped palms, Keith puts his hands behind his back.

Meredith blinks.

“She won't scratch you,” she tells him, and then seems to reconsider, “Not if you are careful.”

“You're not allergic, are you?” Maxwell asks, peering over her shoulder.

Keith shakes his head, keeps his mouth shut.

A few years ago, one of his foster fathers had had a dog, an aging white Shepard. The dog had been nice, but it barked too much, and whenever it barked the man would deliver a swift kick to its side. It never learned its lesson. Keith didn't either. Keith didn't want to duck away with his tail between his legs.

Eventually, the dog ate some of the rat poison on the property and the man didn't bother taking it to the vet. Nothin' you can do 'bout that, he'd said with a shrug and gotten his shotgun. Keith hadn't put his hand to the animal's trembling flank, had just clenched his fists by his sides, but he hadn't looked away either.

“But you like Shiro's cat, don't you?” Meredith asks now, starting to sound a bit desperate. There is a litter box in the bathroom and a scratching post by the backdoor and a tiny collar around the kitten's neck. They are already in too deep and Keith knows it.

“I don't mind her,” he says carefully and Meredith gives an encouraging smile.

“Don't you at least want to name her?” she asks, though she props the little furball up against her shoulder.

Keith licks his lips.

“Red,” he says because that's easy, that's obvious, that doesn't show too much commitment.

“Red,” Meredith agrees with her hands like the wings of a dove, “That sounds nice.”

 

That night, Keith can hear Meredith and Maxwell quietly talking in the hallway.

“We should have asked him,” Meredith says, “I shouldn't always be this impulsive, I shouldn't-”

“Hey now,” Maxwell says, “It's not like you haven't wanted a cat since you were ten.”

“Nine,” Meredith corrects petulantly, “That's when I got Aristocats on VHS.”

“He'll warm up to her,” Maxwell assures her, “Just you wait.”

But Keith already knows how this is gonna go. He's gonna be brought back to the orphanage and the cat is gonna stay. The cat is cute and young and not messed up. They hadn't gotten her from the pound. If she scratched, it was because she was a baby. If she destroyed something, it was because she didn't know any better.

Right now, she is sleeping on a plush pillow on the armchair by the window. A sliver of moonlight falls past the curtain and makes her look unreal, like nothing but a stuffed toy.

Keith rolls onto the side so he doesn't have to see her anymore.

 

Red is relatively easy to ignore. In the morning, Meredith fixes Keith's breakfast and then pours tiny portions of cat food into a small porcelain bowl. She coos at the kitten, runs her red fingernails through the red fur and then draws those same fingers along the backrest of Keith's chair, asks about his plans for the day.

Keith's plans are always simple. He goes to school and then he'll come back to do homework, maybe read a book. Sometimes, he meets up with Shiro. Sometimes, Matt and Katie are there as well, the four of them roaming the streets, Newton at their heels. Katie is usually glued to her Gameboy, so Matt has to lead her around by the pigtails so she doesn't run into a lamppost against.

They don't ask why Keith is in foster care or where he comes from. They don't ask how long he is going to stay either. Keith likes it that way.

When Keith comes home that day, he can hear music playing from the office.  He know that, when Meredith is working alone, she always listens to Indie. Maxwell listens to Classic. Together, they play Swing. Right now, Dean Martin's voice is susurrating down the stairs which probably means the two of them will start dancing around at some point.

Keith slips out of his shoes and into the living-room. He sits down on the couch, toys around with the remote control, wondering whether he should turn on the TV. But there aren't really any shows he watches, so it seems kind of pointless.

Something nudges against his foot and, when he leans forward, he can see Red stick her head out from under the sofa. She gives a quiet meow and rubs her head against his ankle.

“Hey yourself,” Keith says, shifting. His butt feels kind of damp and he first thinks it's sweat, but then he realizes that it seems to be seeping into his pants from the outside. Quickly, he stands up.

Right there on the cushion of the rather expensive-looking couch is a big wet stain. Keith stares for a moment and then leans closer, taking a careful sniff.

It's pee. It's pee and the stupid cat peed on the stupid couch and there is pee all over Keith's clothes now and he is a little bit disgusted and a lot scared.

He swallows, looks down at Red who doesn't seem to be aware of any misdemeanor, just blinks her marble eyes at him. With wooden steps, Keith makes his way into the into the kitchen. He grabs a clean rag from the supply closet and wets it under water.

The couch is velour leather, though. If he uses some sort of cleaning agent on it, he is probably just going to destroy the material. He once had a foster mother who was always nagging him about using coasters when setting a glass down on the coffee table.

Red jumps up onto the sofa and meows again.

“Shut up, shut up,” Keith tells her, pushing her aside to scrub at the stain. Her tiny claws catch on the material. The stain stays, too, made bigger by the addition of the water.

He could just say he spilled his drink, Keith thinks, tugging his shirt over his head, pressing it against the stain to soak up some of the moisture. It doesn't help much, though, and it still smells like pee.

“This is all your fault,” Keith tells the kitten and he wants to call her names, but his voice chokes in his throat.

They would see. They would see and then they would get angry and punish her or kick her out. And she was too little, she wouldn't survive on her own, there were birds of prey out there and dogs and cars and all kinds of dangers.

On socked feet, Keith runs back into the kitchen. He grabs a spoon and then stands on his tiptoes to open the freezer. There is still enough chocolate ice cream left over and he scoops some into his open palm. By the time he is back by the couch, it is all molten and he smears it directly onto the leather where it has been stained dark gray.

“Don't,” he tells Red harshly when she tries to lick at his hands. Chocolate was bad for dogs and he didn't want to find out whether it was the same for cats.

When he is done, he grabs the shirt and the rag with his dirty hand and lifts Red up with the other. Something is rattling in his chest as he creeps up the stairs. Somewhere in the distance, Dean Martin is singing about love.

He drops off Red in his room and closes the door behind her. Then he locks himself in the bathroom and rinses out his clothes in the tub to get rid off the evidence, till his fringe is damp from the steam. He scrubs his hands cleans, too, and then turns the water to cold to splash some onto his burning face. The change in temperature makes his palms tingle unpleasantly.

The clothes are drenched and heavy. He tries to wring them out but it does little good. He can't put them into the hamper like this, can't leave them in the bathtub either or the Blanches will see and wonder. So Keith just gathers them against his chest and hopes they won't drip too badly as he carries them back to his room. He drapes them over the outer window sill, wondering how long it will take for the late afternoon sun to dry them.

Red is sitting on his bed, watching him. Keith curls up beside her and waits.

 

Meredith comes to find him less than an hour later. Keith hadn't put any new clothes on yet and he feels too exposed, too small to be facing her right now.

There is a frown on her face, like questions instead of anger, which doesn't make any sense. She should be angry about the stain, about the fact that he had ice cream before dinner, that he just took food without permission, that he left his room, that-

“Keith,” she says, “Come here, Keith.”

Very slowly, he stands up from the bed. He hopes she doesn't notice Red, just comes to stand in front of her, eyes glued to the floor. With his chest bare like this, he is hyper-aware of how quick and shallow his breath is coming.

Foster parents usually didn't hit him, but sometimes they got _mean_.

Meredith, however, just looks at him.

“C'm here,” she says again, her voice all damp, and then she hugs him so that his head is nestled against her belly, her fingers in his hair.

She doesn't demand an explanation or an apology. She doesn't say that it's alright either but, somehow, that's implied.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just to make things clear because sometimes readers don't quite catch on to stuff like that: Keith is suffering from the consequences of past emotional neglect which is why he is feeling extremely out of touch with his own emotions and the world around him, making it difficult to read other people.
> 
> I didn't want to turn this into a 'Shiro is the first/only person to show him affection' because that makes it sound rather unhealthily dependent. Instead, I plan to slowly have Keith arrive at a place where he can love freely and easily. Which I why Meredith happened. I'm sorry, but I love her and I hope you do, too. <3


End file.
